Lovers Are Lunatics
by MereExtraordinaire
Summary: Arcade finds himself jealous of the relationship that Boone and the female Courier share, but can't quite figure out who he's more interested in.  Written for the Fallout Kink Meme.
1. The Overactive Brain

The very first night Boone slept with the Courier, Arcade Gannon didn't sleep a wink.

It was deathly quiet in the presidential suite of the Lucky 38 Hotel and Casino that night, something that was somewhat rare, even for the early hours of the morning. Arcade lie awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, having given up hours ago on fooling himself into thinking he would find rest that night. He tried to keep his mind busy, even talking to himself under his breath, anything to drown out the sound of muffled gasps and moaning coming from the wall beside his bed. For the first time, Arcade found himself wishing his roommates were being their normal, noisy selves.

In a typical evening, Rose of Sharon Cassidy would sit at the long table in the kitchen and down close to two full bottles of whiskey easily, culminating into a lengthy discussion of life and the world between her drunken self and Craig Boone. Correction, it was a rather one-sided discussion with Cass and herself. Boone, ever the mute presence, would simply sit in silence - a dark, imposing form of eyes and ears, giving the occasional grunt to let her know he was still conscious. Arcade knew that Boone was nowhere near as stupid as he looked; in fact, he imagined that the former First Recon soldier was quite intelligent. Rather than contribute to conversation, he listened, and he watched. Arcade liked to think that all that listening and watching could create quite an extensive mental library of information.

The rest of the companions all had their nightly rituals as well. Veronica Santangelo had recently discovered that she liked to knit and usually spent her evenings in the rec room, sitting cross-legged in a chair, her knitting spread across her lap, the radio playing and propped up on the end table beside her. The cybernetic dog Rex seemed to enjoy Veronica's taste in pre-war hits, and liked to spend the night curled in a ball at her feet.

Then there was the Courier. She was an enigma all of her own. She had told Arcade that story of how she had been shot in the head and left to die, but it was the most he knew about her. Two bullets to her brain had completely eradicated any memories of her former life, including the very fiber of _who she was._ She remembered nothing: where she grew up, how old she was, even her own name. Arcade, however, found it vexing that after nearly 18 months, she had yet to designate herself with a new name. A man of science, of words, Arcade liked order. Everything needed a name, something to be called, a word that you could use to refer to it, but the Courier was just … the Courier. When asked by his colleagues at the Old Mormon Fort who he was traveling with, his response had simply been, "That Courier who's been making a fuss on the Strip." When he asked Veronica who had drank a bottle of his special stash of Nuka Cola Quartz, the reply had been, "The Courier."

And it was "the Courier" and her obsession with health and wellness and early morning excursions who was always the first to bed in the evenings.

So Arcade found it strange that particular evening when, just shortly after the Courier had gone to bed, Boone had stood up in the kitchen, stretched, and announced that he was also going to hit the sack early, and he suggested that everyone else do the same. Even stranger was the fact that when Arcade finally decided to turn in as well, he found Boone lying wide-awake. Of course, it was a little difficult to tell in the near-complete darkness of the windowless guest bedroom they shared that Boone was even there, but once he had undressed and slid himself between the sheets of his own bed, he slowly became aware of the absence of sound. Boone always - _always_ - snored loud enough to wake the dead, and this night, he lie completely silent, his breath all but nonexistent.

Arcade dared to venture toward conversation. "Something on your mind, Boone?" he asked softly.

"Can't sleep."

Well that much was obvious. Arcade craned his neck to see Boone over the edge of his pillow, but could only make out the dark shape of his body. Forget trying to read his face.

Arcade rolled onto his back. If his calculations were correct, he had been living in this apartment for 73 days. It had become the norm for him to share a bedroom with someone he considered practically a complete stranger. The number of words he had exchanged with Boone could be counted on just one hand. Well, Arcade thought, smiling wryly, perhaps that was hyperbole, but only just.

Veronica and Cass were at least decent conversationalists, despite Veronica's naivete and youth and Cass's insistence at being completely sloshed for the better part of the day. Hell, even the Courier could open up once in a while to talk with him, particularly while they were out on the Wastes together. But no, when it came to Boone, Arcade could have better conversations with the dog.

Unfortunately for poor Arcade, this caused quite an array of perverse thoughts to roll around in his mind. Boone's lack of personality caused Arcade's over-active mind to kick into overdrive with thoughts about his inner machinations. What made Craig Boone tick? What exactly was going on in his mind when those dark eyes spent all that time observing?

What, precisely, did he wear under those canvas cargoes?

It was enough to send Arcade's mind into a frenzy. Granted, he was terrified of the idea of Boone ever discovering that Arcade thought about him in the middle of the night, but what was a man to do? Sharing an enclosed space with someone for a long period of time is bound to make your mind wander, he supposed.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Arcade finally drifted into the somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. And it was from this somewhere that he was sharply awakened at the sound of a bed creaking. It took a few seconds of rapid blinking to find consciousness, and another brief moment for Arcade to realize that Boone had rolled out of bed. In the dim light, Arcade saw the sniper's nearly naked form go to the door and disappear out into the hallway.

A second later, he heard the Courier's bedroom door open and softly shut.


	2. Three Irritating Truths

Why, why, why, why _why?_

Arcade couldn't berate himself enough for agreeing to take on this little adventure. When the Courier approached him the evening before with the idea that herself, Arcade, and Boone were to set out the next morning to cross the Mojave, he should have just said no, flat-out. Three's a crowd: always has been, always will be, as far as he was concerned.

It was night. They were camping in the main room of a tiny, run-down old house that had stood the test of time and warfare and still managed to have four walls and (mostly) a roof. It was far from the comfort and warm water of the Lucky 38, but it was better than a bedroll in the sand. Arcade leaned against the wall, feet to the small cooking fire, a book of Latin literature in his lap. He did like to read, that was obvious to anyone that knew him, but tonight, his mind couldn't form the words. Several things had happened that day that caused Arcade's head to spin. Several things, and he had already sorted them into categories of varying annoyance.

One: he came to the conclusion that Boone and the Courier were the same person, but in very different bodies. Both were in peak physical condition and had pushed Arcade to the very limits his body allowed, forcing a grueling 12-hour march across the Mojave with breaks only long enough to chug from a canteen. They worked together in harmony, helping one another and their scientist third wheel across the rough terrain, taking turns lugging the obscenely large rifle they had brought along. And for most of the day, neither of them said enough words strung together to make a coherent sentence.

Two: he spent the better part of the day following along behind his companions clutching a stitch in his side, which gave him more than enough time to admire that each of them had nice, muscular hind ends. He made a mental note to decide later, in the privacy of his next bath, which one he preferred.

Three: he discovered that the Courier went by another name than "Courier".

It was Freckles.

Boone called the Courier Freckles.

He heard it just once, and in passing. He was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to have heard. The two of them were still on their feet during one of their quick water breaks, pouring over the Pip-Boy map on the Courier's arm and apparently trying to decide their best course, when Arcade caught the phrase, "... circle around through Nipton, Freckles."

Really? A vast multitude of popular nomenclature throughout the history of mankind at his disposal, and Boone chooses a _noun?_ The plainest, most obvious feature upon the poor girl's sun-scorched face? Classy. Real classy.

Arcade licked his finger and delicately turned the page of his book, still acting under the pretense that he was deeply interested in his reading. In fact, he had given up several chapters ago. It was one thing to be next door to a pair of wild animals, quite another to be in the same room as them. He continually peeked at the two of them over the top of his thick-rimmed glasses, waiting to see some sign that it would be another night of stealing away into the darkness together.

He couldn't help that he found it arousing.

He had admitted it to himself hours ago. Admitted that the thought of his husky, muscle-rippling roommate entangling his body with the tiny Courier's stirred a tightness in his crotch. Did he want to be involved? Yes. Yes, he did. Did he want to watch them going at it?

Absolutely.

In his 33 years on this planet, Arcade Gannon never had decided if he preferred men or women, a fact that he had confessed just once in darkened a bar with a colleague when he had just started out in the Followers of the Apocalypse. He'd had a meager love life in his younger years, a love life that had dwindled to nonexistent as he had started pushing 30, but that didn't stop him from having a very vivid, and usually active, imagination-

"Gannon."

He started. "Huh? What?"

The Courier was looking at him, brandishing a fifth of vodka. "Where the hell is your brain? You've been staring into the fire all night. I said, do you want a drink?"

Arcade glanced from her, to Boone, and back again. The vodka bottle was open, a few sips' worth already gone.

"I ... oh, sure." He took the bottle from her, pressed the rim to his lips, and took a long guzzle from it. The liquid burned like fire all the way down his throat, churning uncomfortably in his stomach. Arcade passed the bottle over to Boone, and leaned back against the wall.

"So what's on your mind, Gannon?" the Courier asked, shaking her dark hair loose from its binding and letting it fall across her shoulders. "Usually I can't get you to shut up. You've been very quiet today."

Arcade thought very carefully. How did he explain that he knew she was bumping uglies with Boone in secret? Furthermore, how did he say that he wanted his own uglies bumped?

"Just trying to keep up with you," he said lamely. It wasn't a lie; he'd been out of breath for most of the day, but the Courier delved deeper.

"You've been very deep in thought," she said, taking a swig from the bottle, and Arcade took special note of the way her lips lingered on its edge. The way the very tip of her tongue just barely touched the glass.

"Ah." He wracked his brain, searching through the filing cabinet that was his mind for a viable answer to that statement. In truth, he felt rather childlike, playing _I like you but I'll never tell you, _but he really hadn't had much experience in the matter. Nearly every personal encounter he'd had in life had, one way or another, involved alcohol or several months' worth of carefully thought-out advances. He lacked, as Veronica so succinctly put it, 'game'.

"You never did say what our plans were for this little excursion," he finally said, wholly and completely diverting the subject away from what he was actually thinking.

The Courier – _Freckles_ – patted her side arm lovingly, stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles. "We've been contracted by a group of miners in the Goodsprings area to take care of a little infestation problem, is all. Shouldn't be too hard, we'll be in and out as soon as we get there."

"What kind of an infestation problem?" Arcade asked, pointedly eyeing the overly-large scoped rifle that Boone was so meticulously cleaning at the moment.

"Mole rats," the Courier responded quickly. "Fuck-ton of 'em."

Arcade frowned. "I see. So you brought along your in-house stimpak creation specialist and a gun bigger than Caesar's balls for ... mole rats."

"Oh honestly, Gannon." She rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up. "If I had told you last night that we were hunting deathclaws, would you really have agreed to come along?"

Arcade didn't respond, but merely reached for the vodka and took a very, very long swig.


	3. Blame it on the Vodka

"Look at him. Can't even stand up."

"Poor guy. I didn't know he was such a lightweight. No wonder he always goes for the bitch drinks."

Were they talking about him? Didn't they _know_ who he was? Didn't they know he was fluent in three different languages, one of which was completely dead in this world? Didn't they know he understood the complexities of quantum mechanics and taught courses in molecular degradation and particle acceleration and qualitative versus quantitative analysis and and and …

"Fuck, he's annoying. Do something."

"Relax, Boone, I'll handle it."

Arcade blinked. The Courier was kneeling next to him. Where did she come from?

"What do you want?" he asked her harshly, gripping the bottle in his hand tighter. Wait, how long had he been holding this bottle? What if she wanted to take it away from him? Was he going to be in trouble?

"Gannon, give me the vodka."

"No! Quieta non movere!"

Even through the haze the vodka had formed over his vision, he saw the perturbed glance the Courier exchanged with Boone. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means, 'don't move settled things,'" he told them matter-of-factly. "Just leave me alone, my vodka and I are quite content together."

He heard her heave a heavy sigh, then the bottle was plucked from his hands. He expected her to turn away and finish the alcohol with Boone before preparing for sleep. Instead, he felt a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder, and a soft voice in his ear said, "Come on, Gannon, I think it's time for bed."

This statement amused Arcade, and he giggled to himself. "Right," he said, and before he could stop himself, more words spewed out after that: "And when you think I've drifted off to sleep, you'll have all the privacy you need to spread your legs for Boone, eh?"

A very loud, almost ringing silence followed. And then, all at once, there was an explosion of noises and actions.

In one swift and seemingly well-practiced motion, Boone swept Arcade off the floor and pressed the scientist against the wall, white lab coat bunched in his fists. The sniper pressed his face so close to Arcade's that their noses were barely touching, sputtering in rage about invasion of privacy and putting a booted foot in places where it didn't belong. Over Boone's shoulder, Arcade could see the Courier, her face red with either anger or embarrassment, shrieking at Boone to let him down.

A second later, she let one well-aimed elbow fall directly into the small of his back. The soldier gave a pained grunt, and Arcade slipped from his hands and back down onto the floor. Instantly, she was between the two of them, her body crouched low, catlike, shielding Arcade from anything else Boone might want to try.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Boone?" she asked him shrilly.

"Did you not hear what he just said? Guy's a fucking prick." Boone tenderly massaged the area directly over his right kidney, wincing.

"So it was a prick thing to say! What are you going to do, kill the closest thing to a doctor we've got?"

He opened his mouth to reply, shut it again, then mumbled something under his breath about finding more firewood, seized their enormous rifle, and exited the building, slamming the door behind him.

The Courier rounded on Arcade, hands on her hips, practically bristling in her chagrin. He stared up at her blearily; he was suddenly feeling much more sober. What was so hard about just keeping his mouth shut? It never really had been his strong point, but this time, he'd definitely stepped out of line. He clambered to his feet, briskly sweeping his hands along his coat in attempt to brush off the dust, then turned to face her.

"Look, I -"

She waved her hand in irritation. "I don't want to hear it. For three months now, you and I have been a team. We've worked together, traveled together … fuck, you've sewn me up more times than I can count in that short of time." She turned her palms up, staring at him. "What gives?"

Arcade hesitated. He carefully straightened his glasses on his face, then ran a hand through his hair, clearing his throat. "I … I don't know."

The Courier crossed her arms, staring at him in suspicion. "What is this?" she said. "Is Arcade Gannon at a loss for words?" She held up her index finger, her eyes boring into his own as she stepped closer to him. "Listen to me. What goes on in my bedroom is absolutely, one hundred percent none of your business. It's just strictly sex, and that's all there is to it. Understood?"

He didn't answer her. The word 'sex' was buzzing around in his foggy brain as though she had shouted it, and for the first time since the day she had walked into the Mormon Fort, Arcade could see that underneath the dirt and soot and the hardened attitude and the thick leather armor, the Courier was, indeed, a woman. And those freckles …

He reached out for her. He couldn't help himself. He cupped his hands on either side of her face and kissed her fervently. It wasn't romantic or seductive or any other thing a kiss was supposed to be, and Arcade knew that if he were just slightly more sober, he would never have done it, but he was kissing a woman for the first time in over ten years.

The Courier, caught completely off-guard, at first remained completely frozen where she stood, then broke free of his grasp, pushing him forcefully in the chest.

"What the fuck, Gannon?" she shouted. "I thought you were gay?"

"_You _said that," Arcade shot back at her. "I've never said one way or the other."

She gaped at him. He could tell he'd struck home. "So you're not."

"Not exactly. I've entertained the idea of joining in with you and Boone on more than one occasion." He couldn't believe he was admitting it out loud.

The Courier went quiet. She was eyeing him, though in what way, he couldn't tell. It seemed as though she was torn between complete revulsion and slight intrigue. They stood that way for several long seconds, her regarding him suspiciously, him hovering in front of her, fighting with himself whether to push the matter further.

Finally, she said to him, "Best not to mention this to Boone."


End file.
